


The Grey Lord

by Megark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Intrigue, sfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27024631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megark/pseuds/Megark
Summary: Upon discovering that both Light and Dark aren't what they seem, Harry must make a choice that will shake the Wizarding World to its core.
Kudos: 11





	1. Greysight

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story on Ao3, so please be gentle! I've been working on this story off and on for almost 5 years now, and it's probably the fanfic I'm most proud of. Lemme know what you think of it!
> 
> Happy Reading,  
> Megark

Harry allowed himself to be led back to Hogwarts, his mind flashing with the events he had just witnessed. Clear, clean images of Hermione collapsing, slashed by purple flames. Ron, white and choking, being throttled by weird brain tentacles. Harry himself being locked out of his own mind by Voldemort. And, most disturbing of all, Sirius, laughing and confident, toppling into the Veil.

Harry blindly followed Dumbledore through the Castle, still in shock, still recovering. Harry's eyes were not seeing the Castle as Harry remembered it, however, the colors were dull, the walls lifeless. The portraits lost their vibrancy, and were relegated to simply being shifting lines on the walls. Harry found that the missing steps and false walls that normally troubled him were rendered obvious. He wondered if that was because Dumbledore was there. Maybe the Castle could read Harry's distracted state and was changing to allow for his easy passing.

It didn't really matter.

Harry soon found himself sitting in Dumbledore's office, but the room was strangely different. Harry vaguely remembered strange whirring and spinning devices; odd reminders that Dumbledore had sensors for magical metrics that Harry couldn't even conceive of. But it was just a dull, possibly brown, desk sitting in the middle of a vaguely L shaped room. The strange lines on the wall that Harry suddenly remembered were the portraits were shifting back and forth, emanating the sort of white noise Harry associated with radios.

After a few minutes, Harry noticed that Dumbledore was looking at him expectantly.

“What? Did you say something, Professor?”

Dumbledore shifted a bit in his seat and peered at Harry from over his half-moon spectacles. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

Harry frowned. Dumbledore sounded different somehow. His voice lacked the care and concern Harry had always heard before. Harry felt no desire to answer the question. And perhaps most strangely, Harry  _ felt _ the lack of a twinkle in Dumbledore's eye. Harry quickly looked his Headmaster up and down. Dumbledore's robe no longer sparkled. It was no longer the somehow cheery midnight blue that Harry remembered, but seemed to be a dreary, somber blue that felt more like gray.

“Well?” Dumbledore asked, his voice grating on Harry's nerves.

“What's happening to me, Professor?” Harry asked, his voice sounding raw and ragged, his hands still shaking from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. “My vision is...off somehow. Things look-”

“Hopeless?” Dumbledore nodded mechanically. “I'm sure they do, my boy. After all, this is what happens when evil flourishes.”

“No,” Harry said, trying to make the old man understand, “I'm not seeing the way I normally do. I'm-”

“In shock.” Dumbledore bridged his fingers and leaned forward. “My boy, you've just undergone a rather horrific shock, and-”

Harry tuned the grating voice out with a stern effort. He wasn't sure how much more of that awful, mechanical voice he could take. He could have sworn that Dumbledore's voice didn't used to sound like that. Harry reached up to rub his eyes.

“Sorry, sir?” Harry stood, “May I leave?”

Dumbledore looked genuinely shocked. “What? Why?”

“I, er, feel a bit off.” Harry absently scratched at the back of his head. “I'd rather like to go to bed.”

“Harry, I have something I really must tell you, first.” Dumbledore looked up at Harry gravely. “I know it's hard, but you must fight through the pain you're feeling.”

Was that...sarcasm?

“Sorry, sir, but I really need to go.” Harry began to turn.

“ _ No! _ ” Dumbledore's voice rang out commandingly, but Harry felt no desire to stop and turn back. “You will-”

Harry slammed the door behind him, the thudding reverberations vibrating in the silent staircase. He made his way down to the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. The stone creature immediately leapt aside and Harry continued his uncomprehending journey. As he walked, Harry began trying to take stock of what he was experiencing, but whenever he felt close to an answer, he had another vivid shock of an image; Ron choking, Hermione collapsing, Sirius...falling. Definitely falling. Not dying. Falling.

Harry blinked and found himself standing in front of a frustrated looking Fat Lady.

“I said, ' _ password', _ ” she said, petulantly jutting out her lower lip.

“Er, right,” Harry thought for a second, “Devil's Snare?”

The painting shook her head. “That was yesterday.”

Harry groaned. “Look, I've been out for the past few hours, you know me, don't you?”

The Fat Lady folded her arms and steadfastly shook her head. “You know the rules, Harry Potter, no password, no entry!”

Harry sighed and sat down with his back against the wall of the Tower. Someone would come by eventually.

“Why the long face?”

Harry started, before realizing the voice was coming from the portrait. “Um, what?”

“You heard me, boy,” she said, not unkindly, “What's got you all out of sorts?”

_ Where to begin? _ Harry thought to himself. “Well, someone I really… Honestly, a load of people I really care about are hurt now, because of me.”

“Oh, dear, it can't be all that bad!” The Fat Lady clucked her tongue. “They'll be all right, won't they be?”

Harry shrugged. “I don't know. They were hurt pretty bad.” He grit his teeth. “And there's one that I’m damn sure  _ won't _ be coming back.” His eyes began to burn. “All because-”

“They love you, Harry,” said a different voice.

Harry looked up. Ginny and Neville were standing in front of the portrait hole, looking a bit scratched up, but not nearly as bad as Harry had been expecting.

“We followed because we trust you, Harry,” Ginny continued, with Neville nodding seriously behind her, “We made that choice.”

Harry knew he was losing the battle with his tears. “But still, if-if I hadn't-” He felt a warm wetness trail down his cheek.

“No, Harry,” Neville stepped in, “If V-Voldemort hadn't.”

Harry looked up, stunned. “Did-did you just?”

Neville looked at the ground, then grinned up at Harry. “It's really not all that scary, is it?”

Harry, despite himself, chuckled. A few more tears broke free of his lashes, but he didn't care. “It's really not, Neville.” He got up and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Say, do you happen to know the password?”

* * *

It took a surprising amount of time for someone who knew the Gryffindor password to come walking through, and it was well into the wee hours of the morning when they finally got in. Neville had tottered up the stairs almost immediately, saying something about sleeping off his broken nose. Harry was waving Ginny up her own stairs, when he had an idea.

“Hey, Gin, can I talk to you?” he asked.

“Of-of course, Harry,” Ginny said, a small tremor in her voice. She walked back to one of the rich couches, in front of the dying fireplace. When he was sitting next to her, she asked, “What's up?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. This was the problem with ideas in the heat of the moment. “Er,” he began, “D'you remember your first year much?”

Ginny frowned and looked away. “No.” After a moment, she looked back over, and her face softened a bit. “Rather, I try not to.”

Harry nodded. “I'm sorry to ask you this, after all what's happened, but something… happened to me tonight, and you're the only person who might understand.”

Ginny looked up sharply. “What did he do?”

Harry took a deep breath. “He possessed me.”

Ginny gasped and put a hand on Harry's arm. “Oh no! I'm so sorry.”

Harry nodded and his eyes scrunched at the memory. “I… couldn't control myself. My voice spoke without my permission. It said,” he shook his head spasmodically, “terrible things. I said terrible things.”

Ginny inched closer on the couch and her grip tightened.

“And the pain,” Harry whispered, “The pain was too much. My whole body was… on fire. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream, I couldn't even blink.”

Ginny squeezed his shoulder and rested her other hand on his forearm.

“Finally, I was able to throw him out.” Harry sighed and noticed her closeness for the first time. “I-” He blinked. “Um, it was, uh, only through my thoughts of, er, my friends, that, uh, I could get rid of, er, him.”

“Blimey, that's awful, Harry,” Ginny said, her eyes large and soft, “I was never, erm,” she turned and looked at the rug on the floor, “Fully awake when he possessed me.”

Harry nodded. “The thing I need to ask you about is sort of… after that part.” He squinted and scrunched his mouth over to one side. “When you woke up, did you see things the same?”

Ginny looked back and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Harry began, but faltered. How to say it? The colors were still muted. Ginny's normally fiery hair was a dim sort of maroon. The almost garish colors of the Common Room were dull and subtle. “See, everything's sort of… dim… now.”

Ginny tilted her head, the frown deepening slightly.

“See, er,” Harry glanced around, “Look at that tapestry.”

Ginny looked over where he was pointing. The tapestry depicted a golden lion proudly roaring on a field of scarlet. The enchantment on it made it forever swaying on an imperceptible breeze. “I see it,” she said, nodding.

Harry nodded. “I know what color it is. I  _ remember _ what color it is.” He paused, and she looked back at him. “But I don't see that color now.”

Ginny's concerned frown was back. “What do you see?”

Harry shrugged. “There's no color in it. Well,” he amended, “Very little. It's sort of like the color of those dingy yellow plates your mom reserves for special company.”

Ginny tilted her head.

“Oh! Before she washes them!” Harry clarified.

Ginny nodded in understanding, then looked back at the tapestry. The lion was as proud and golden as ever. “That's not good.” She looked back. “Have you talked to Madam Pomfrey?”

Harry shook his head. “I went to Dumbledore's office right after, and then came straight here. Did you,” he took a breath, “Did you ever see anything differently after coming out of possession?”

Ginny's mouth dropped slightly. “Oh. I see.” She thought for a second. “I don't think so. I just sort of…  _ was  _ somewhere. It was really eerie, actually.” She frowned. “Wait.” She snapped her fingers. “In the Chamber! It was only for a moment before I passed out, but I remember a brief glimpse of you stabbing that awful book with some sort of tooth. I remember because the book was a totally different color, almost gray, and your skin looked really ashy and gaunt.”

Harry frowned. “So maybe this whole thing has something to do with the aftereffects of possession.” He looked over at Ginny. “I don't suppose there's a book about this.”

Ginny shrugged. “I just didn't want to remember anything, so I haven't looked into it at all.” She shifted a bit, so that she and Harry's legs were touching. “Why the interest?”

Harry, noticing the contact, sputtered, “Um, well, see, I was in, er, Dumbledore's office.” He cleared his throat. “And, um, you know how Dumbledore always sounds so encouraging and, well, genuine?”

Ginny glared playfully at Harry. “The most I’ve ever heard him is at dinners, giving speeches.” She smacked him lightly on the arm. “You're the only student I know who's ever had more than a one word conversation with the guy.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “But you know that tone his voice has, right? That grandfatherly tone?”

Ginny nodded. “Sure, go on.”

Harry sighed. “It was gone. He sounded… mechanical. Sarcastic. His voice made me shudder.” Harry looked towards the opposite wall. “It made me want to both run away and curse him into oblivion. It was,” he looked back, “Scary.”

Ginny's hand slid into his own, and she squeezed it reassuringly. “You're probably just in shock. Do I sound terrifying?”

Harry glanced down at her. “No. Not at all, you sound just the same, actually.”

Ginny shrugged. “Sleep it off, Potter. You'll be fine in the morning.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “I hope so. I really hope so.” He smirked. “Gray is such a boring color.”

Ginny's eyebrow quirked up. “Was that humor? From you?”

Harry shrugged. “What can I say? I’m in a weird mood.”

Ginny rested her head on Harry's shoulder and snuggled against it. “I like your weird mood.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Ginny's eyes closed and soon she was breathing deeply and slowly. Asleep.

Harry sighed mentally. He had really been looking forward to his bed tonight. Steeling himself in for a short, uncomfortable sleep, Harry closed his eyes.

* * *

“Oi! Potter! Wake up!”

Harry was wrenched from his nightmare and blinked into a bleary consciousness. A frowning Dean Thomas was glaring down at him. Harry looked over and Ginny was similarly waking up, rubbing the weariness from her eyes. Harry quickly glanced around the room that was, mercifully, devoid of Ron. Harry sighed. It looked bad all right. He frowned. Wait. Why did Dean care?

Harry looked up at his classmate. “What's up, Dean?”

“Now look here, you bloody-”

“Dean!” Ginny cut in, “What the bloody hell are you doing?!”

Dean gestured angrily at Harry. “Everyone bloody well knows, in my dorm, that I've got,” he faltered, “Er, that I’m, um, interested in you.”

“And you think the best way to go about it is to scream at my friend, in the middle of the Common Room?!” Ginny flared, standing up.

Dean took a step back. “Er, well, he bloody well knows better.”

“Really?” Ginny asked, sneering like a pro at the terrified boy, “You really think that Harry Bloody Potter gives any part of a shit about whose pants you're trying to get into?”

The Common Room was starting to fill, and snickers were starting to become apparent. Dean glanced manically around, looking for any sort of respite from the red-head in front of him. “Er, well, you know, it's sort of a man, er, thing.” His back bumped against the wall of the Common Room.

“You'd think,” Ginny said slowly, skewering Dean with her eyes, “That to be worthy of a 'man-thing' as you so eloquently describe it, both parties would have to be  _ men _ .” She looked Dean up and down. “Sorry to say, but I’ve found you wanting, Mr Thomas.”

There was a low hum of laughter around the Room.

“You bloody tart!” exclaimed the red-faced Dean, “You bloody said-”

“And now I don't,” Ginny replied bitingly, “And I'll thank you to leave me and mine alone.”

She turned and stalked out of the Common Room. Harry slowly stood and glanced at the shell-shocked and white-faced Dean. The silence was palpable, and Harry slowly made his way out of the room. He tried to send a comforting look at Dean, but the boy was too busy staring at the floor. Harry made it out of the portrait hole and wandered down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Ginny was already there, angrily tearing into a piece of toast.

Harry sat next to her in silence, not wanting her fury to be unleashed on him. After her voracious tearing of food became less terrifying, Harry said, “Sorry about that.”

Ginny tossed her head, sending a long strand of red hair over her shoulder. “It's not you, Harry.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.” She glanced at him saucily. “Then again, maybe I won't.”

Harry laughed, and a tightness he hadn't noticed in his stomach melted away. “I'm not sure I want to know, honestly. I'll take Voldemort over an angry Ginny any day.”

Ginny's cheeks went a little pink, but she seemed mollified as she continued eating her breakfast.

Harry didn't eat much, but he ate what he could at Ginny's behest. He knew it wasn't enough, but after a while, the tightness returned to his stomach and he couldn't bring himself to eat anything more. Soon enough, Harry got up and left the Great Hall. Ginny offered to leave her half-full plate of delicious breakfast, but Harry urged her to stay and eat. He wanted to clear his head.

“Going somewhere, Potter?” snarled a  _ most _ unwelcome voice, just as Harry passed by the staircase just outside the Great Hall.

Harry turned and glared at Draco Malfoy. “As a matter of fact, Draco, I'm going to the hospital wing.”

Draco adopted a faux-pitiful face. “Oh, is poor ickle Potty feeling sick?” Crabbe and Goyle, sounding like gravel in a cement mixer, chuckled approvingly.

“Actually, Malfoy,” Harry returned, “I'm going to check on my friends, to see how they're faring after we  _ defeated _ your father.”

Malfoy paled. “You didn't. You can't go off school grounds. You're lying!”

Harry shrugged and kept walking. “Believe what you want, Malfoy, but you won't need to tell your father about this.” He glanced back. “He already knows.”

Harry was hard-pressed to hold in his crowing laughter as he heard Malfoy's rage fade into the Great Hall. Harry's good mood carried him through the castle, as he easily made his way to the Hospital Wing. When he walked in, however, and saw Ron and Hermione laid up in beds, seemingly unconscious, his lightness faded back into a nervous tightness in his stomach. Harry walked up to Ron's bed and was taking in the fiery wheals that the brains had left when Madam Pomfrey walked up.

“Sort of reversed, isn't it Harry?” the matron asked, “Usually you're in the bed, and they're here to see you.”

Harry's lips twitched at the attempt at levity, but it did little for him in the face of their comatose faces. “Will they be all right?”

Madam Pomfrey grew serious. “Ron will be right as rain in a few days. Hermione, though, is a bit trickier.”

Harry glanced over at the nurse. “How d'you mean?”

“See, she was hit by a rather nasty little Dark curse,” Madam Pomfrey explained, “And Dark curses have a particularly insidious side to them that, especially compounded with the severity of the curse in question, makes it...difficult to simply bounce back from.”

Harry frowned. “Is there anything I can do?”

Madam Pomfrey considered the question. “You know what? It may do some good for her to see you. Here,” she lifted her wand and pointed it at the comatose girl, “ _ Ennervate _ .”

Hermione's eyelids flickered, and her lips pursed. Some sort of gurgling sounded from her closed mouth. Harry moved forward and took her hand, softly stroking her knuckle with his thumb. “Hey, Hermione? You there?”

The girl stirred and seemed to be struggling with something. Harry squeezed her hand and kept muttering encouragement.

Finally, her eyelids opened, and Harry had never been happier to see her soft, brown eyes. “Hey there, Hermione, welcome back.”

Madam Pomfrey quickly disappeared, giving the two some time alone.

Hermione smiled groggily up at Harry. “Mmmm, hey yourself.” She winced. “Ooh, that burns.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “Oh, right. The curse.”

Harry grimaced. “Are you ok, should I get-”

“It's fine, Harry,” Hermione said, trying to sit up a bit more, “I'm all right.”

Harry finally let himself grin. “Brilliant. I've been really worried.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I'm in the safest place in all of England, Harry.”

“Er, you didn't see...” Harry trailed off, “You didn't see yourself get hit. It was,” he paused, “Worrying.”

Hermione thought for a second. “I guess you're right. Sorry to worry you, Harry.” She smiled apologetically.

“Oh, no,” Harry said, “Worry me all you want if it means that you're all right.”

Hermione just smiled in return and squeezed his hand.

They stood that way for a while, simple contact being more than sufficient in terms of communication. Harry glanced out of the window and onto the grounds. It was oddly surreal to see them blithely exist, as if nothing was different, as if everything was exactly the same as it had been yesterday. Well, maybe for the Lake and the Forest, things were the same. For Harry, however, things couldn't be more different.

There was something about the soft warmth of Hermione's hand that made Harry feel that things were all right again, that what happened last night was just a dream. Looking over the grounds, feeling that warmth, and after his conversation with Ginny, Harry was hard pressed to allow himself to feel the pain he knew was just hardly in the background. Finally, in this place of peace and rest, Harry allowed himself to think the sentence he had been avoiding all night.

_ Sirius was dead _ .

Just three simple words, but three words that had the potential to make Harry completely unravel.

Perhaps Hermione felt his hand begin to shake, because she said, “What is it, Harry?”

Harry looked back down to her smiling face, and his eyes caught a look of the bandages that covered her new scar. Reality came crashing down, and Harry felt a burning wetness streaking down his face. “Sirius is dead.”

Hermione squeezed his hand in shock, and her eyes widened. “No...” she trailed off, “That...can't...”

Harry squeezed back, unable to process the words that would make the situation better.

“He was always so...” Hermione's voice was trembling, “He just...”

“I know,” managed Harry, his voice threatening to break, “It doesn't seem possible.”

Hermione looked up at Harry, concern beginning to flood her eyes. “Harry, are you-?”

Harry shrugged. “I'm not sure, to be honest. I probably will be.” Harry looked away, over the grounds again. “Neville said something last night that I needed to hear.”

“What?” asked Hermione.

“He said that it wasn't my fault.” Harry's voice trembled violently as he looked down at the ground. “He-he said that it w-was that...monster's.” Harry's hand clenched, and Hermione's little cry went unheeded. “Voldemort. It's all his fault!” Harry snarled.

Suddenly, accompanying Harry's rush of anger, all the color that Harry's eyes had been missing came rushing back. Hermione's hair was a rich brown, and the bedsheets were a clinical off-white. Outside, the grounds exploded into lush color, vibrant almost to the point of pain, and Harry was forced to blink rapidly for several moments.

“Harry?”asked Hermione, startled, “Are you all right?”

Harry looked around at all of the glorious color returning to his vision, and nodded quickly. “Something happened last night, Hermione, something...else.”

“Oh?” she asked tentatively, “What, er, was that?”

“Voldemort...” Harry began, “He, er...” He took a breath to steel himself. “He possessed me.”

Hermione's mouth dropped, and her face went white. “What?”

Harry nodded slowly before turning to look at her. He squeezed her hand. “Yeah. He took me over and...demanded that Dumbledore kill me.”

Hermione's mouth opened and closed impotently.

“Yeah,” Harry continued, “It was, er, pretty terrible.”

Hermione nodded silently, and stared into Harry's eyes. After a moment, a loud snore from Ron broke the tension, and they both laughed.

“Anyway,” Harry said, chuckling, “When I got back here, I noticed that my vision had gone all wonky like. I couldn't really see color or anything.”

Hermione frowned, and Harry could see that her mind was busy churning all of the data that she could.

“Also, Dumbledore sounded different.” Harry frowned. “He was sarcastic and almost mean. His voice really ground on my nerves and I couldn't stand being in the same room with him.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her mind still whirring and spinning.

“So,” Harry concluded, “I'm having trouble thinking what that could have been.”

There was a pause, and Harry could almost  _ smell _ Hermione's hair beginning to smolder from her brain's work.

“Nothing,” said Hermione, as if she herself couldn't believe it, “I've actually got nothing.” She looked up at Harry and squeezed his hand. “I've never heard of anything like it.” She pursed her lips. “But you know who might?”

Harry shook his head.

“You're not going to like it,” Hermione said reprovingly.

Harry shrugged. “Better than nothing, isn't it?”

Hermione made a small, snorting sound. “I'm not sure you'll think it is.” She frowned. “Don't fly off the handle at this, Harry.”

Harry sighed in exasperation. “Bloody hell, Hermione, what is it?”

Hermione said in a decidedly timid voice, “You should talk to Professor Snape.”

Harry's eyes flared. “No! No way!” His teeth ground against each other and he released Hermione's hand. “That bastard taunted Sirius about staying home all the time. I’ll bet he's part of the reason Sirius was so ready to dash off to help us.”

Hermione tut-tutted. “I told you not to fly off the handle.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I didn't think you'd gone mental, Hermione.”

“Hey!” Hermione exclaimed, “It's a rational choice! He knows the most about mental magic, aside from Dumbledore, and you don't exactly have a lot of people to turn to, do you?”

Harry frowned. “Still, that overblown bat as good as killed Sirius. I can't rightly forget that.”

Hermione sighed. “Neville said it best, Harry. Voldemort killed Sirius, no one else.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but found that words failed him. After sputtering for a second or two, Harry fell silent.

“Now, I’m not saying you  _ have _ to go, Harry,” Hermione continued, “I'm just saying that he's your best option to go to.”

“I'll...” Harry sighed, “I'll think about it.”

Hermione brightened. “That's all I wanted.” She slumped back against her pillows. “Now let me sleep, Harry, I’m getting tired.”

Harry nodded, gave her hand a final squeeze, and left the Hospital Wing. He had a  _ lot  _ to think about.

* * *

Harry spent the next week trying his best to enjoy the time away from class, and, ostensibly, responsibility, but free time was alternately wonderful and torturous. When Harry was able to spend time in the company of friends, time went wonderfully. Ron got out of the Hospital Wing in the first few days and Hermione was allowed to leave for a few hours at a time, provided she stayed close to the Wing. The trio spent their time trying to enjoy being alive, rather than focus on the sadness of death. Harry was particularly stringent with this, as the more he thought about it, he knew with more and more surety that Sirius would not want his loved ones regretting his passing. Rather, Harry knew that his godfather would want those he left behind to enjoy life and remember the good times.

When Harry was alone, however, things were very different. The depressing and heavy thoughts that friends removed returned in full force to weigh Harry down, and pull him down into a spiral of guilt and self-doubt. Try as he might to hold Neville's admonition in the forefront of his mind, Harry felt himself increasingly unable to hold out against the onslaught of negativity. As a result, when Ron was asleep, and Hermione was in the Wing for the night, Harry would often abscond to the Room of Requirement, or the Prefect's Bathroom, to either lose himself in whatever luxury the Room would offer, or the mind-melting warmth of the bath.

The day before all of the students were scheduled to return to their homes, Hermione was officially released from the Wing, and the trio were celebrating with butterbeers by the Black Lake. The sun was out, and a soft breeze ensured that the day would not become hot. Other students were seen in groups lounging here and there, trying to relish the last moments of camaraderie before a summer of separation.

After a few minutes of talking about nothing, Hermione turned and addressed Harry. “Have you thought any more about seeing Professor Snape?”

Ron frowned. “What? Why would Harry willingly talk to that slimy git?”

Hermione gave him a frown, but did not say anything.

“Er, I have,” Harry said, receiving a puzzled look from Ron, “I was sort of putting it off, though.”

“Well, this  _ is _ the last day,” Hermione said, looking away from Harry, “You might as well do it now.”

“Wait, hold on!” exclaimed Ron, “What's all this? Did something happen?”

Hermione frowned at Harry. “You didn't tell him?”

Harry shrugged. “It didn't seem important.”

“What?!” burst out Hermione, “It was the second thing we talked about! How is that not important?”

“I dunno,” said Harry, feeling worse and worse, “It never came up.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” asked Ron indignantly.

“I told you how Voldemort possessed me, right?” Harry asked.

Ron nodded.

“Well, when I got back to myself, the color in my vision was gone.” Harry stared at the grass in front of them. “And Dumbledore didn't sound like himself. It was weird.” Harry shrugged. “So, I told Hermione about it and she said I should talk to Snape.”

“Wait,” ventured Ron, “Do you still see that way?”

Harry shook his head. “It all came rushing back to me while I was talking to Hermione. Actually, that's what reminded me to tell her about it.”

Ron frowned. “Why Snape, though?”

“He knows the most about mind magics,” explained Hermione, “And based on what Harry said, I don't think he should talk to Professor Dumbledore any time soon.”

Ron nodded slowly. “It's just Snape, though. That git probably wouldn't even help Harry in the first place.”

Hermione shook her head. “He's part of the Order. Dumbledore trusts him. It'll be fine.”

Ron shrugged. “If his vision is fine, I don't see why it matters, anyway.”

Harry broke in, “It matters because Voldemort may possess me again.”

There was a short, awkward silence, punctuated by a stifled cough from Ron.

“Right,” said Harry, “I'll be off then.” He stood and nodded to his friends. “Wish me luck, then.”

Ron and Hermione nodded and waved as Harry left.

* * *

Harry made his way slowly to Snape's dungeon. Harry mused that the last time he had come here willingly was to steal potion ingredients, way back in second year. As he descended into the castle's depths, Harry's steps became more and more forced, and his sense of dread mounted with each one. The potions classroom, and Snape's adjoining office, were definitely  _ not _ what Harry would consider as places containing happy memories, but his reason for coming here was more important than that, and so Harry trudged on. Rather later than Harry expected, but sooner than he felt prepared for, Harry found himself in front of Snape's door.

Harry knocked.

“Yes?” came the slow, methodical voice on the other side.

“Er, Professor?” Harry faltered. “I, um, have something to ask you.”

“Potter?” came the surprised reply, “What business have you with me?”

Harry looked this way and that, up and down the corridor he was standing in. “It's a rather private matter, Professor.”

Harry heard footsteps and soon the door opened. Snape was clad, as ever, in black robes that covered his whole body. He had, however, donned dragon-hide gloves, and these were smeared with the innards of some no-doubt unfortunate creature.

“Yes, Mr Potter?” Snape sneered.

“May I come in, Professor?” Harry asked, trying his best to keep his voice level. Snape's voice just got right under Harry's skin, and somehow Harry being here voluntarily made it all the less bearable.

“Please,” said Snape dryly, stepping back into his office, and opening the door a bit more. When Harry was sitting in a rather spindly, wooden chair, Snape alighted in his plush, leather chair on the other side of his desk.

Harry hardly had time to take in the creepy potion ingredients scattered around the room before Snape had removed his gloves and folded his arms across his chest. “Now, Mr Potter, what is this personal matter you wish to discuss?”

Harry sighed. “At the Ministry, Voldemort possessed me.”

Snape remained stone-faced. “A standard power of his. Continue.”

Harry nodded. “I threw him out, after a time-”

Snape blinked. “What?” Snape frowned. “You simply 'threw out' the Dark Lord, the most powerful Legilimens in the past millennium?”

“Er, yes,” Harry said.

Snape's frown deepened. “Go on.”

“Well, when I came back to myself,” Harry continued, “Everything was sort of...muted, like it lost some of the color it had.”

Snape steepled his fingers. “Fascinating. Did you notice anything else?”

“Er, well,” Harry thought back, “The portraits in the castle weren't proper paintings any more. Just sort of wonky lines.”

Snape tilted his head, and leaned forward. “Tell me, boy, what did Dumbledore sound like to you?”

Harry blinked. “That was the strangest part, actually, Dumbledore sounded grating and mechanical. Even sarcastic.” He shook his head. “It was really unnerving.” He looked at Snape. “How did you know?”

Snape leaned back into his chair, further than he had at the beginning of the conversation, and slowly shook his head. “Oh, Potter, Potter, Potter.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Potter, you have bumbled into one of the most powerful magical abilities in existence.”

Harry frowned. “What?”

“You, somehow, have attained Greysight,” Snape explained, “Something that  _ I _ had to work at for the better part of a lifetime.”

Harry blinked. “What's Greysight?”

“The ultimate goal in Occlumency, and a treasure your little mind could not possibly comprehend,” snarled Snape, “Such a lamentable waste that  _ you _ would manifest it.”

Harry clenched his fist in rage, but remembered that he needed the information Snape inevitably had, and so Harry took a deep breath and cooled his anger. “What can you tell me about this Greysight,  _ sir _ ?” Harry asked.

Snape looked surprised for a moment before recovering. “Strange. I would have expected you to fly off the handle, as you do so abysmally often.” He gave Harry a searching look. “I suppose you deserve a bit of explanation. First,” he stared intently into Harry's eyes, “I will-” Snape jerked back in surprise. “What? Why can I see your thoughts?” He glared at Harry. “Are you playing me false, Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “Er, all of the colors came back to me the next day.”

Snape's eyes narrowed. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was talking with Hermione, in the Hospital Wing,” Harry said, “And I was telling her about Sirius, er, dying, and I told her that it was all Voldemort's fault.” Harry paused, remembering, then said, “And I got really angry, that's it, and all the color came back.”

Snape's pale fingers went even paler as he gripped the desk. “You lost the Greysight?” He shook his head. “You're a bigger fool than I would have thought possible.”

“Hey!” said Harry, “I didn't know what it was! I didn't mean to 'lose it,' though I was relieved that my eyes were still all right.”

Snape sighed. “You are an enigma, Mr Potter.” He folded his hands together. “Tell me. Do you wish to regain Greysight?”

Harry frowned. “I don't know. What does it do, exactly?”

“As I said, it's the ultimate level of Occlumency,” Snape said, as if to a child, “It's how I am able to lie to Voldemort.”

Harry nodded. “I see.”

Snape shook his head. “It also renders any magical attempt to influence your emotions quite harmless. That's why you did not see the portraits as you do now.”

Harry tilted his head.

“Portraits are imbued with the emotion of those who painted them,” Snape explained condescendingly, “And so they seek to impart that emotion onto the viewer. Incidentally,” Snape continued, “I'm sure that even you have realized what happened in Dumbledore's office.”

Harry shook his head, bracing himself for the scorn that was sure to follow.

“Incredible, truly, how dense you are, Potter,” sighed Snape, “You finally heard Albus without all of the magical filters on his voice, and person. In a way,” he leaned forward, “You had your first  _ real _ conversation with Albus just last night.”

Harry gaped. “But-but he sounded-”

“Awful?” suggested Snape, “Annoying? Depressingly condescending? Bitterly sarcastic?”

Harry nodded.

“That's because it matters little how Albus  _ actually _ sounds,” said Snape, “Since his magic ensures that he sounds  _ precisely _ how he wants to.”

Harry paused, thinking. “Wait. You said that you can do Greysight, right?”

Snape nodded.

“So, you've  _ always _ heard Dumbledore like that?” asked Harry.

“Heavens no, boy,” Snape said, “I only achieved Greysight a little over a decade ago, long after I had sworn myself to Dumbledore.”

Harry nodded. “I'm sorry, sir.”

Snape began staring at Harry intently again. “Do you wish to try and regain Greysight, Mr Potter?”

Harry nodded eagerly.

“Should you succeed, Mr Potter,” Snape explained, “I warn you that you will be hard pressed to follow Albus for much longer.”

“How do you follow him?” Harry asked.

“The alternative is, for me, impossible,” said Snape. “Serving Voldemort is...unacceptable, and simply leaving the castle and avoiding the headmaster is...infeasible.”

Harry nodded. “Honestly, if Dumbledore really is  _ this _ terrible, it makes your turning traitor a bit-”

“Never finish that sentence.” Snape's voice was cold. “There may be no good side to fight for, but betraying the Dark Lord was by far the most correct decision of my life.”

Harry tilted his head. “Why did you turn on him?”

Snape sighed. “I learned a terrible truth.” After a pregnant pause, Snape continued, “I learned that the Dark Lord had no intention of winning his war on the Ministry, and all of magical Britain.”

Harry's mouth dropped open. “What?!”

“How much do you know about the Dark Mark, Mr Potter?” Snape asked with a bitter smile on his face.

“Er, not much,” admitted Harry, “I know that it summons his followers, but that's about it.”

“It does that,” nodded Snape, “But there is another dimension to the magic; a dimension that I could not abide.” Snape leaned forward and spread his hands out. “You see, Mr Potter, Voldemort attached a sort of connection to his Mark. It is a one way transfer of power upon death.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“When a Death Eater dies, a part of his power is magically added to Voldemort's own core,” explained Snape, drawing a line with a finger on the desk. “Tom Riddle was, by all accounts, an extremely powerful wizard. The Dark Lord is an  _ impossibly _ powerful wizard.”

Harry frowned. “So every Death Eater dying is another burst of power for Voldemort?”

Snape nodded. “It was in his personal best interest to continue the war as long as possible, to accrue the highest amount of losses on both sides, to ensure the highest possible chance for victory.” Snape sighed. “In short, any continuation of the war was a lose-lose for everyone, including his followers.”

“So, you left,” Harry finished.

“So, I left,” Snape agreed, “And in order to cut the war short, I had to make the hardest decision of my entire life. I turned Voldemort on your parents.”

Harry blanched. “Why?”

“I knew from the prophecy that you were the best chance for the Dark Lord to be destroyed,” Snape said, shaking his head, “I told Dumbledore what I knew, and we hatched a plan. Dumbledore orchestrated everything, from your mother's protection to making Wormtail the Secret-Keeper-”

“You knew he was a traitor?” interrupted Harry, “Why didn't they expose him?”

“A known spy is never a threat,” Snape explained condescendingly, “And very often a powerful tool.”

Harry thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

“Anyway,” Snape went on, “The rest, as they say, is history. You caused Voldemort to be removed from the world for at least a time, and Dumbledore was able to make great use of that time; to worm his way onto every important council in Britain, and most outside of Britain as well. To consolidate his power as the Light Lord, to the Dark Lord's, well, Dark.”

Harry nodded slowly, his mind swimming with everything Snape was saying.  _ This  _ was something else, all right.

“So, as you can see, Mr Potter,” Snape drawled, “There is no right side. Both are controlled by a power hungry ego-maniac. The Light offers better mortality rates, although only just.” Snape leaned forward. “Now, let's try and get your Greysight back.”


	2. Slughorn

Harry awoke to a hazy, overcast summer day, another reminder that Dementors were swarming all up and down Britain, breeding like crazy. Well, Harry mused, it had been a rather long time since they'd been allowed to. Harry's calendar told him that it was only a brief week until his sixteenth birthday, something that he was rather ambivalent about.

Harry glanced at his alarm clock, 7:45, and went about doing his daily meditation exercises. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath and let it out slowly, grasping towards peace and serenity with his mind. Snape had described in detail what would help Harry regain his Greysight. Achieving peace of mind and holding on to a lack of emotion was the key, so every morning Harry tried his best not to feel. He took for his inspiration the grey sky outside.

Harry took another deep breath and again let it out. He relaxed the muscles in his arms and shoulders, a small shiver shaking him, and he let go of more thoughts. A nightmare he'd had the night before was proving to be a thorn in his side, and it kept pricking him with feelings of sadness and fear. Harry only remembered the feeling present in the dream, none of the actions, and so he pressed on to rid himself of the pain.

Harry took a third deep breath and let it out even more slowly. The bleak, grey mindscape that Harry had been working on was slowly expanding across his consciousness, something that he'd been building over the last few weeks. He allowed everything to simply drift away from him; to become a sort of detached part of his life that had no real effect on him. Soon enough, the pain and fear in his dream floated away from his consciousness and he felt it no more.

There was a tap tap tap.

Harry blinked and looked at his window. Hedwig was standing sedately on the sill, giving Harry a cold glare. Harry chuckled to himself and lifted the window, letting his owl in. To his surprise, she had a letter on her leg, and Harry was quick to untie it and open the parchment.

  


Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

  


  
Harry sat heavily on his bed as he read the missive. Any other summer, he'd be filled with joy at being able to leave the Dursleys this quickly, but he was filled with a strange trepidation at being in Dumbledore's company again. Their last conversation had ended rather abruptly, and Harry was in no rush to hear that awful, grating voice again.

For a surreal thirty minutes, Harry seriously considered rejecting Dumbledore's offer. However, the prospect of seeing Ron, and maybe Hermione, in just a few, short days had Harry scrawling, “See you then,” onto a scrap of parchment, and sending Hedwig flying out again. As his owl disappeared into the horizon, Harry sat back down on his bed and began trying to sort out his thoughts.

This was another of Snape's tricks to get Harry's mind ready to accept Greysight again, something that had confounded Harry the first few times he'd tried it. The goal was to organize the mind, to put everything in its proper place, to be viewed dispassionately and through the lens of logic. Once everything was where it was supposed to go, Harry began analyzing the outing with Dumbledore.

Really, there were no downsides. Harry would get to the Burrow far faster, and with much more safety, than he'd manage on his own. He'd be helping Dumbledore, which was both personally positive, and potentially a benefit to the Light side. And, finally, Harry would probably get to see some sort of interesting magic.

The only thing that Harry balked at was the potential that Dumbledore would sound terrible again. However, Harry was not in Greysight at the moment, and probably would not find it again before Friday, so that was moot. Not to mention, Snape was constantly in Greysight and managed to be around Dumbledore all the time. Harry was loathe to admit defeat at something Snape could easily do.

All of that aside, however, the real reason Harry was excited to go was the simple fact that he'd be in the world he belonged to that much faster. The Dursleys had largely left Harry alone, something he'd never complain about, but beyond their interference, there was something stifling about Number Four Privet Drive. Harry could almost feel his magic becoming less and less potent while he was there, his connection to Hedwig was dimming, and he felt trapped. There was nothing he could do here in the Muggle World, at least nothing of import, and there was no goal to achieve.

After Harry was finished with his organization, he calmly walked over to his desk, grabbed a Muggle pen, and started writing a letter.

Dear Severus,

* * *

With an effort, Harry pulled himself out of his mindscape and focused on the threadbare carpet beneath him. The alarm clock next to his bed told Harry it was 6:30 p.m. on Friday night. Harry had been delving deeper into the mental exercises Snape had given him, and the past three hours had passed in what felt like mere minutes. With an effort, Harry stood and began stretching his arms and legs to relieve the stiffness in them.

Strangely, Snape was becoming a fantastic teacher. Harry marveled that he was able to learn from the older man, especially in a subject that had given them both such trouble the year before. Rather than simply ordering Harry to “Control his emotions,” Snape was taking Harry through exercises, outlining Occlumencical Theory, and being generally supportive, albeit in his own way.

Harry also began to understand what Snape had meant in their lessons. Controlling the instinctive emotional response to situations was, in fact, the first step to focus the mind. Ironically, had Harry been able to control his emotions in his lessons with Snape, the result probably would have seen Harry become proficient in his practice of Occlumency. Granted, Snape's continual forcing of entry into Harry's mind was probably not appropriate, but that was neither here nor there.

Harry's stomach grumbled, and he suddenly noticed the rather aggressive hunger that, no doubt, came from forgetting to eat all day. Harry glanced at the door of his bedroom, ruminating on the pros and cons of going downstairs to eat, quickly deciding that it was probably a worthwhile endeavor. After all, he was quite hungry.

Harry pulled on some of his oversized, ratty jeans and walked downstairs as quietly as he could. There had been very little interaction between Harry and his family, something that he was quite keen to continue, and Harry took no insignificant time to try and locate his aunt and uncle before walking into the spotless Dursley kitchen. The house was dark and quiet, save for a single light on in the living room. Harry methodically moved through the foyer and snuck into the kitchen making no more noise than a house-elf. When there was no shrill screech or heaving of bulk, Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and noiselessly opened the refrigerator, grateful that Petunia was a neat freak.

Harry heard a grumble from the living room, along with what sounded like racist muttering, and the lack of a reply meant that it was only Vernon in the living room. That meant Dudley and Petunia were unaccounted for, and could walk in on him at any moment. Harry surged into action, grabbing items with only the barest vetting of what they were. Harry soon had a banana, three slices of bread, and a can of beer. He was just opening the banana when he had a thought.

The Dursleys had no idea Dumbledore was arriving in approximately four hours. Harry paused, one third of the banana unpeeled, the beer and bread forgotten. Should he willingly interact with his uncle? It was simply a display of common courtesy. Harry doubted very much that his uncle would show him the same, except to remind Harry to stay in his room forever. A month ago, Harry would likely have simply let the chips fall where they may. Harry now, however, slowly put the bread back into the fridge, picked the beer up, and walked into the living room.

Vernon Dursley was sitting in a reclining chair that was barely up to the task, reading a book that Harry couldn't see the title of. Harry was mildly surprised. He'd never seen his uncle read before.

“Er, Uncle Vernon?” Harry asked quietly, not wanting to surprise his uncle.

Vernon started and looked up sharply at Harry. “Wha-?” He glared. “What do you want, boy? I ain't signing any ruddy form.”

“No, it's not that,” Harry said. He walked into the room a bit further and handed the beer to Vernon. “Here.”

Vernon shifted his glare to the can. “What's this?” he asked suspiciously.

Harry shrugged. “It's from the fridge. I figured it's yours.”

“You didn't do nothing funny with it, did you?” Vernon glared at Harry again, “I know you can't do your...stuff away from school.”

Harry shook his head, a bit exasperated. “Nothing. I promise.”

Vernon slowly took the can. When nothing happened, he popped it open. With another mistrustful look at Harry, Vernon took a sip. “All right, boy, what do you want?”

Harry slowly, deliberately, took a seat on the couch opposite Vernon. “I'm leaving tonight. Someone will be by at eleven to pick me up.”

Vernon nodded slowly. “One of your types?”

“The Headmaster of my school,” Harry answered, looking for any indication of violence from his uncle.

“Right then,” Vernon picked up his book again, “Mind he doesn't make a scene. Petunia and Dudley should be in by ten, and he better not wake them.”

Harry blinked. “All right.”

After a rather awkward pause, Vernon put his book down again. “Was there anything else, boy?”

Harry shook his head.

“Then what are you still doing here?” growled Vernon.

Harry got up and walked up the stairs to his room, pensively peeling the rest of his banana.

* * *

With a satisfied sigh, Harry finally closed the lid to his trunk and closed the latch. He looked around his room, feeling impressed with how clean it all was. No sense in cluttering up this room, after all. Harry's clothes were folded up and put away, the trash he'd never cared to tidy up was all thrown away, and the mess that Hedwig inevitably made was likewise erased. The knowledge that Petunia and Dudley were away for the evening ensured that Harry would not be discovered as he moved about the house with trash bags.

The clear floor and sense of accomplishment reminded Harry of the summer previous when he, Ron and Hermione had spent countless hours cleaning Grimmauld Place. Hermione had realized that there was no way the Trace would sense their magic in such an old and magical home. Harry and Ron eventually were able to convince Hermione that there was no harm in using magic to clean up the place, and they made a game of using magic to clean outside the view of Molly Weasely. The Weasely matriarch had vociferously forbade the underage witch and wizards from using magic on holiday, and had soundly punished Ron when she found him Levitating doxies out of the third floor window.

Harry grinned at the memory of Ron painstakingly dusting the hallway portraits with a single Hippogriff feather. Every time Ron touched the portrait of Walburga Black, the witch flew into a rage that was swiftly ended by sneezes powerful enough to make Sirius come down and ask what the devil was happening.

Harry, as per usual, felt a slight sinking feeling inside when thoughts of Sirius came up. The feeling wasn't nearly as bad as it had been a month ago, Harry wouldn't even call it “pain” anymore, but nonetheless it wasn't a pleasant feeling. Harry took a moment to feel the sinking feeling, give it its due time, remembering what a great person Sirius was, and generally allowing himself to grieve. When the sinking feeling was up, Harry pushed his mind to remember who the real villain in all of this was, and the anger that flared up in Harry pushed him to his feet. A final glance at his alarm clock read 10:55 p.m., and Harry hefted his trunk and strode outside to wait for Dumbledore.

As he slowly closed the front door to Number Four, Harry turned and looked out at the quiet, suburban street. The night was brisk, and Harry opened his trunk to pull on a sweater. The first one his hand found was the one he'd received the previous Christmas from Mrs Weasely. As he pulled the warm, comforting wool over his ratty t-shirt, Harry couldn't help but grin at the thought of Ron haplessly wearing his sweater when they'd opened their presents. Ron may complain about what Mrs Weasely gave him, but Harry was sure that he'd definitely prefer them to what the Dursleys thought of as gifts.

It was only the peaceful darkness that allowed Harry to hear the incredibly soft pop that signaled the arrival of Dumbledore. Harry involuntarily tensed his shoulders as he heard the older man's footsteps approach Number Four. Harry scanned the darkness, and quickly found the Headmaster walking beneath the streetlights towards him. Dumbledore was wearing his traditional hat, but his robes were rather more subdued than normal. There were swirling patterns of maroon sequins on a sapphire field that looked like flames swirling around underneath a storm. The robes made Dumbledore somehow more formidable, and consequently, less grandfatherly. Harry immediately got the sense that their errand was vital and dreadfully important.

Soon enough, Dumbledore smiled and lifted a hand in greeting, and Harry returned the gesture, though the smile was eerily reminiscent of the same one Harry remembered from Dumbledore's office. Harry shook himself mentally. Of course it reminded him of that night. Harry took a deep breath and cleared his emotions. This would be a long night.

“Good evening, Harry,” said Dumbledore in greeting, “I rather thought I might have to come in and get you.”

Harry shook his head. “Vernon told me not to wake them, so I figured I’d wait outside.”

“That's rather, er, thoughtful of you,” Dumbledore said with a slight frown.

Harry shrugged. “No reason to pointlessly create conflict, right?”

“Right.” Dumbledore still regarded Harry with an odd look. After a moment of Harry volunteering nothing, Dumbledore seemed to put the matter from his mind. He took out his wand and with a few waves, had shrunk Harry's trunk. “Shall we?” he asked, offering Harry his arm.

Harry nodded, pocketed his trunk, and took it. At his touch, the fabric was pulled back a bit, and Harry saw that Dumbledore's hand was shriveled and blackened, as if burned.

Harry flinched. “Are you all right, sir?”

Dumbledore glanced down and chuckled. “As well as can be expected, my boy.”

Harry stared at the hand, morbidly fascinated. “What happened?”

“It is a thrilling tale,” smiled Dumbledore, “And I wish to do it justice.”

Harry digested that. If Dumbledore was telling the truth, the hand seemed not to be debilitating. But how could that hand not be debilitating? Harry mentally shrugged. It didn't matter.

“I am told,” Dumbledore continued, “That Apparition is a rather unpleasant sensation at first.”

Harry glanced up at the old man.

“Do try not to soil my robes,” Dumbledore said, his eyes smiling at Harry over his spectacles, “They're new.” His lips twitched upwards.

Harry forced a chuckle. “I'll try, sir.”

Apparition was, in fact, an unpleasant experience. Harry felt as though he were being shoved through a particularly stiff garden hose without being shrunk at all. In the grips of the sensation, Harry felt as though time stretched, elongating his suffering rather like the Cruciatus Curse, though far less painful.

After an eternity that only took the blink of an eye, Harry felt his feet land on solid ground. He straightened, trying to get a sense of where they were, but his eyes were in no state to see what was around. Harry doubled over, as his stomach made its discomfort known to the rest of his body, and he felt that if his dinner had been more substantial than a banana, he'd probably be losing it.

He felt a hand pat his back and heard Dumbledore say, “You'll be alright. It gets easier, you know.”

With an effort, Harry ignored his stomach and straightened up. They were standing in a suburban street, very much like the one they'd just left. Streetlights were the only illumination around, shining down on the various cars and yard decorations one might find in any neighborhood.

“Where are we, sir?” asked Harry, still looking around. “Why are we in a Muggle neighborhood?”

“Well spotted, my boy,” twinkled Dumbledore, “We are here to interview for a position at Hogwarts.” He began walking towards a certain house. “Right this way, Harry.”

Harry turned and began following Dumbledore down the sidewalk. Suddenly, the sky was lit up by a huge skull with a snake for a tongue, tinged a menacing green, bathing the house below in a sickly light. Harry's eyes went wide. He surged forward, dashing towards the house, barely even hearing Dumbledore ruefully mutter, “My, my, now this is something.”

Harry vaulted over the small, metal gate and continued his mad dash up the serene little garden in the front yard. The door was, predictably, smashed into twigs, the doorknobs rolling sadly on the concrete porch.

“Lumos!” Harry cried as he entered the home. The tip of his wand flared with an urgent, white light, showing Harry a completely destroyed home. The Death Eaters had been painfully thorough in their destruction, smashing mirrors, ripping paintings, and caking the walls liberally with the blood of their victim.

Harry ventured away from the foyer, into the dining room. There was a magnificently thick mahogany table that had been cracked completely in half, a small pool of blood on the ground between the two halves. The owner of the house had, at least, put up a fight, evidenced by half a Death Eater mask listlessly hanging off a dining chair. Harry turned to go into the kitchen, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small, innocent looking plate of food lying on the ground. It looked delicious.

Harry followed the destruction into the kitchen and, apart from a few blood smears on the refrigerator and some cabinets, the violence seemed to take place in other parts of the house. There was evidence that dinner was being prepared, food was on the counter, pots and pans were still uncleaned, and there was meat of some sort on the cutting board. This struck Harry as a bit odd, as he'd seen the completed plate of food already.

With a shrug, Harry kept moving into the living room, and was again morbidly impressed by the pure inventiveness of the Death Eaters' destruction. There was hardly a surface in the entire room that had survived even a little. Walls were slashed and scuffed, the sofa had apparently exploded, and the large sliding glass doors that led to the backyard had been violently destroyed. As Harry looked around the room again, however, a strangely pristine chair caught his eye. It was overstuffed, blue, and, except for the top being a bit threadbare, it was completely untouched.

“Ah, Harry,” said Dumbledore, suddenly beside Harry, “I see you've found it too.”

Harry started. “Er, what have I found, Professor?”

“The owner of the house,” explained Dumbledore, “Go on, give that chair a poke.”

Harry slowly, and with great trepidation, walked up to the chair and sort of tapped it with his finger. The chair twitched away from the touch. Harry blanched and looked back at Dumbledore.

“Harder, Harry, try again!” called Dumbledore with an encouraging smile, as though Harry were a toddler performing some endearing action.

With a shrug, Harry plunged his wand straight into the plushy seat of the chair. The chair squawked and flinched backwards, somehow smoothly turning into a rather large, rather bald old man standing in front of Harry, rubbing his stomach with a sour expression. He was wearing what looked like a dressing robe, as though he were just off to bed, complete with slippers and a sense of drowsiness.

“Bloody hell, Dumbledore,” the man complained, “It's bad enough you call without notice, but you didn't have to send your bloody crusader in on me.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “The jig was up, Horace, and you know it.”

“Yes, what gave it away?” asked the man, Horace, showing slight interest. “I'm rather proud of all this destruction, and in only four seconds too.”

Dumbledore looked appreciatively around the demolished living room. “Quite impressive, Horace.”

“Er,” Harry broke in, “What's going on?”

Both older men looked at Harry for a second before Dumbledore snapped his fingers. “Of course, so rude of me! Harry, this is Horace Slughorn,” He turned to the older man, “And Horace, this is Harry Potter.”

“You don't say!” Horace exclaimed, moving towards Harry with renewed interest, extending a hand, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my boy, quite an honor indeed!”

Harry took the hand and shook it, a smile growing on his face, “Pleased to meet you too, sir.”

“Well, with that out of the way,” Slughorn said, turning back to Dumbledore, “How the devil did you figure me out?”

“My dear Horace,” Dumbledore chuckled, “The Dark Mark is not a static image.”

“Of course it is!” exclaimed Slughorn exasperatedly, “It has to be! There's no other way for it to stay in the air!”

“It's not, sir,” Harry said, “You know how portraits are alive? It's sort of like that.” Slughorn gaped at Harry. “Er, the skull comes first, then the snake sort of bursts through the mouth.”

After another moment of looking strangely at Harry, Slughorn sighed and shrugged. “It's good enough for most people, anyway.”

“Horace,” Dumbledore began, “Shouldn't we fix this place up? I don't believe Mr and Mrs Blunk would appreciate this mess.”

“Right you are, Albus.” Slughorn navigated the debris absentmindedly and moved to stand back to back with Albus. “Shall we do it together?”

Both older men took out their wands and began chanting spell after spell, their wands dancing in unison through the air. Harry watched agog as the living room began to twist and repair itself, lurching back to a pristine condition. Chunks of wall flew back to where they belonged, rends in paintings stitched themselves back together, the sliding glass doors were suddenly seamless pains again, and with an agonizing crunch, a magnificent crystal chandelier that Harry hadn't even seen screwed itself back home.

Mindful of the flying debris, Harry carefully walked back to the foyer. There, too, everything was righting itself incredibly quickly. Somehow, Slughorn and Dumbledore were simultaneously targeting the entire house with their spell. With a grin born of sheer wonder at the limits of magic, Harry meandered back into the living room. Hermione would be ecstatic to hear about this spell. Maybe he could get Dumbledore to teach it later. Soon enough, the living room was back to its old self, and the three wizards were relaxing into the comfortable sofas and chairs Dumbledore and Slughorn had just fixed.

“Right, Horace,” began Dumbledore, “I believe you know why I’ve come.”

“Indeed I do,” grumbled Slughorn, “And I know why you've brought him, and it won't work.”

“Just think of all the good you could do at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, vaguely gesturing with his hand, “All of the students who could use your expertise.”

Slughorn tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose. “It's almost midnight, Albus, if you're going to nag my ear off, will you at least let me nod off first?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Very well. I can see there's no convincing you.” He stood, and Harry scrambled to follow. “May I use the washroom before we depart?”

Slughorn waved Dumbledore on, a resigned exasperation on his face. As Dumbledore walked out of the room, Harry hesitantly sat back down on the comfortable leather sofa. A mildly uncomfortable silence set in as Harry looked around the room. Now that it was all put back together, the room was really quite lovely. There were several pictures of an elderly couple smiling and waving in various locales, including in front of a beautiful Asian temple and the Statue of Liberty. Strangely, Slughorn wasn't in any of the pictures.

“Are these your parents?” Harry asked, gesturing at the photos.

Slughorn looked up from being annoyed with Dumbledore and replied, “Oh heavens no. I’m loads older than they are.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “These Muggles are on vacation in the Canary Islands.”

Harry blinked, then frowned. “Did they ask you to house-sit?”

“I've never met them,” sighed Slughorn, “They were quite surprised to suddenly win a cruise from a contest they'd never entered, but my Confundus Charm cleared things right up for them.”

“You charmed Muggles?!” exclaimed Harry, leaping to his feet.

“Oh calm down,” grumbled Slughorn, “It was a victimless crime. They got a pre-paid vacation and I got a place to stay for a week or two.”

Harry slowly sat down again.

After a moment or two of silence, Slughorn asked, “Mind if I show you something, Harry?”

Harry shrugged and followed Slughorn into an adjoining room. It seemed to be the master bedroom. There was a generous king sized bed that dominated the room, with a door off to the side that was probably the master bathroom. There was another sliding glass door that led into the backyard, though it was dark enough that Harry couldn't see what the backyard was like. The decorations on the walls were softer, and more intimate than in the living room; romantic pictures of the Muggles, the man playing with what were obviously his children, and even a small photo of the woman holding her baby grandchild.

Harry stifled a shiver at the invasion of privacy and said, “What is it?”

“Here,” said Slughorn, handing Harry a small picture frame.

The picture showed a small dinner party, an even mix of men and women, young and old, all of them wearing Hogwarts robes. They all seemed to be having fun, at least they were all smiling and waving at the camera, but Harry's eyes were drawn to one girl in particular. She had long, shimmering red hair, a graceful smile, and a lightness of posture that rendered her instantly likable. But Harry was more immediately drawn to her eyes. They were a sparkling, bottle green.

Harry felt a surge of emotion, and it was all he could do to swiftly shunt it off to the side. “You taught my mother?” Harry asked, barely a hint of a vocal tremor.

“I did,” answered Slughorn, warm pride suffusing his voice, “She was one of my absolute favorites.”

“Then you taught my dad too, right?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” answered Slughorn, “Though he took far less of a shine to me than Lily did.”

After a moment of staring into his mother's smiling face, Harry took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I take this photo, Mr Slughorn?”

“Of course not, my boy,” said Slughorn.

“Thanks,” Harry answered, turning and walking back to the living room.

When they both were seated opposite each other, Slughorn asked, “Do you want to hear a story about your mother, Harry?”

Harry looked up from the photo and nodded eagerly.

“To give some context,” Slughorn began, “As a teacher, I would throw little parties here and there throughout the year for students that merited, er,” He searched for the right word, “Special attention.” Slughorn chuckled and shook his head. “Imagine my surprise when some Muggleborn witch in her first year was recommended to me.”

The emphasis on “Muggleborn” made Harry speak up hotly, “There's a Muggleborn witch friend of mine who's the best, by far, in our year.”

“Oh! You mustn't think I’m prejudiced,” protested Slughorn, emphatically waving his hands, “Didn't I just say that your mother was one of my favorites?” When Harry didn't lower his glower, Slughorn continued, “And I'm sure your friend is quite lovely, too.”

Harry shook his head resignedly, “I'm sorry, please continue.”

“Right!” Slughorn's eyes lit up, “As I was saying, imagine my surprise when Lily Potter was recommended to me, by Professor Flitwick no less!” The large man leaned forward in his chair, eliciting a small groan from the furniture. “So, to test her, I invited her to my first party of the year, but I told no one else that she would be attending.”

Harry frowned, but didn't say anything. That seemed rather unfair.

“Now, some of my older students would occasionally offer to run interference for my parties to keep those, er, unqualified from entering,” Slughorn said, gesturing with his hands, “And sure enough, right on time, Lily Potter showed up to my office.”

Harry, despite himself, was getting into the story and grinned.

“I see you know where this is going, my boy,” winked Slughorn, “Now, the older boys outside obviously didn't know I’d invited her, so they didn't let her in. Did that stop Lily?” Slughorn chuckled as he shook his head, “Of course not, of course not.”

“What happened, sir?” asked Harry excitedly.

“Well, my boy,” chuckled Slughorn, “I don't believe I’ve ever heard someone so small so thoroughly chew someone out, before or since!” He lifted a finger and waved it in imitation, “'Listen here, big Mister Sixth Year, I was invited by Professor Slughorn and unless you want to take it up with him, you better let me in.'”

Harry laughed but managed, “She really said that?”

Slughorn, caught in his own laugh, could only nod. When he finally caught his breath, he continued, “The poor boy was so taken aback that he only replied in random sputterings.” After another bout of laughing, Slughorn managed, “Eventually, she simply stormed past the two of them, and demanded of me that I 'inform the cretins I employ of the guest list' and that she would not brook another situation like this.”

Slughorn shook his head, “She was such a firebrand, even then.” He took a sobering breath “If only the Dark Lord had seen that, I doubt he'd have had the courage to target her.”

Harry gave a last, sad little chuckle. “She sounds wonderful.”

Slughorn looked sadly at Harry. “It is simply criminal that you did not meet her, Harry. I’ve never known anyone before or since that had the raw vitality that Lily had. Her thirst for everything that life could throw at her was inspiring.”

Harry nodded, looking at the picture, at his mother's smiling, jubilant face. He could see all of what Slughorn was saying in this one, little picture. The impetuous tilt to her chin, the mischievous glint in her eyes, and the obvious levity of her situation. Harry slowly allowed the emotion he'd shoved aside before to affect him, and a sad smile crept over his face. At least, he knew his mother a bit better.

“Sorry to take so long,” said Dumbledore coming back into the living room.

Slughorn quickly adopted a disaffected indifference, “Ah, back are you? Stomach troubles, Albus?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I was merely engrossed in Stitch Weekly. I do love knitting patterns,” he grinned. “Shall we be off, Harry?”

Harry nodded and got up. When he reached the limit of the room, he turned back. “Won't you reconsider teaching at Hogwarts, sir?” He smiled warmly at the old man, “I'd love to hear more about my mother.”

“I'm afraid I can't, Harry,” said Slughorn, shaking his head, “There are too many people after me to be at one place for so long.”

Harry balked. “But, sir, you'll be at Hogwarts.”

Slughorn waved a dissenting hand. “Place is more dangerous than ever now, I hear.”

“If it's safe enough for me, it's safe enough for you,” said Harry dispassionately.

Slughorn opened his mouth, then closed it again. He seemed to be considering.

“Ah well, let's go, Harry,” said Dumbledore. At Harry's incredulous look, Dumbledore grinned and winked. At the door, Dumbledore turned and called over his shoulder. “You know, Horace, it's not everyone who can say they've declined a personal invitation from Harry Potter.” He looked pointedly at Slughorn for a moment before abruptly turning and leading Harry out of the house.

“Sir?” asked Harry, “What was-”

Dumbledore held up a silencing finger. “One, two, three, and-”

“Albus!” called Slughorn from the doorway behind them, “I'll want a bloody raise!”

* * *

Dumbledore chuckled in response and led Harry out of the little garden, and onto the sidewalk. When Dumbledore stopped, he glanced back at the house. “Oops, that won't do.” He pulled out his wand and quickly Vanished the image of skull and snake in the night sky. The night went back to simply being dark, rather than sinister, and Dumbledore offered his hand again to Harry. “To the Burrow?”

After the horrible squeezing and terrifying choking that Harry hadn't really noticed the first time, Harry found himself in darkness, pressed up against something that poked the small of his back. His hands felt around for any clue to his location, but all they found were some oddly shaped materials Harry could identify. He thought perhaps he could feel a hose of some sort, at least the texture was familiar, and maybe some sort of broom?

“Lumos,” whispered Dumbledore, and suddenly Harry could see that he was a garden shed.

“Er, whose garden shed are we in, sir?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore smiled warmly. “The Weaselys'. An impressive bit of Apparition, if I do say so myself,” Dumbledore added with a wink.

Harry chuckled, despite himself. The old wizard was charming again, and it was alarmingly easy to forget all of Snape's warnings about the man. “So, why are we in this garden shed, sir?” Harry smirked. “I'd think we should have Apparated to the door if we wanted to see the Weaselys.”

Dumbledore adopted a false tone of gravity. “Wise beyond your years, as ever, Harry.” With an eye twinkle, Dumbledore shifted tone and became serious. “You remember, no doubt, the conversation we had right after the incident at the ministry?”

Harry nodded. “Sorry about my outburst, sir. I was-”

“No need, my boy, no need,” said Dumbledore, waving Harry down, “You were distraught and I was, er, less than understanding. Nonetheless,” Dumbledore folded his hands together, “We must talk.”

Harry nodded. Snape had expected this, and had said as much when Harry had mailed him.

No doubt Dumbledore will want to debrief you himself. I’ve hinted that you spoke with me, but he won't be satisfied unless he does it himself.

“So, Harry, you went through a traumatic experience back in June,” Dumbledore began gravely, “How do you feel?”

“It was...” Harry trailed off. He didn't know how much to talk about. He and Snape had decided that mentioning Greysight was a bad idea, but nothing beyond that, so Harry figured he'd just try to sound like he had in years previous. After all, Harry had plenty of experience with being wounded after a traumatic experience. “It was really scary, sir. I-I couldn't control myself.” Despite having gone through issues much more painful than this one, it was oddly cathartic telling Dumbledore these baser fears. “He made me say terrible things!” Harry gave quite a convincing affected shudder. “But then I thought of my friends, and I was able to throw him out of my mind.”

Dumbledore nodded compassionately. “Never lose those feelings, Harry. Never be afraid to feel. Those feelings are what make you a man!”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry, genuinely interested.

“Those feelings of love and compassion for others are what makes you human, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled warmly. “Voldemort lacks those basic human feelings, and it makes him a monster.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“There's one more thing, Harry,” Dumbledore said, heaving a heavy sigh, “It's something I should have told you long ago.”

Harry tensed, ready for anything. Remember how the Light works, Harry. Don't let his tone make you forget that he has taken numerous actions that aren't in your best interest. He's only out for himself. See how what he says benefits him. Snape's letter ran through Harry's mind.

“There was a prophecy,” Dumbledore sighed. “A prophecy about you and Voldemort.”

“It broke.” Harry's voice was small. He figured that small, warm ball had been important.

“Did you see anything when it broke?” asked Dumbledore.

“A strange woman started talking, I think,” Harry said scratching his cheek. “I couldn't hear anything though.”

Dumbledore nodded as though something had been confirmed for him. “I see. That woman was Professor Trelawney.”

Harry balked. “Really?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “It's honestly why I keep her on the payroll. She's not safe outside the castle.”

Not to mention, it'll keep that prophecy under your nose, thought Harry. So, that's what Snape meant. Everything Dumbledore does is apparently helping others, but has another dimension to it.

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore continued, “She gave a prophecy concerning you, and the downfall of Voldemort.”

“What does it say, sir?” asked Harry, intentionally demurely.

“Alas that there is no pensieve here,” sighed Dumbledore, “For I wish you to view it in its entirety. Hopefully, my summary will be sufficient.” He took a deep breath. “The prophecy begins with naming you, specifically, as the one who will defeat Voldemort. Your qualifications are that you were born as the seventh month dies, and born to parents who have thrice defied Voldemort.”

Harry nodded as Dumbledore was talking. He fit the bill all right.

“The prophecy then continues on to talk about how you can fight against Voldemort. He will mark,” Dumbledore tapped Harry's forehead, “you as his equal and, in doing so, will give you power that he knows not.”

Harry frowned. That was vague. Power Voldemort knows not could honestly be anything. It could be his friends, his ability to talk to snakes, even his Muggle background. Harry quickly discarded that line as vague enough to be irrelevant.

“I believe that the power mentioned is the ability to love,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard.

Harry paused before answering. What would old Harry say? “Wow, really, sir?” Harry asked, “That's not really a power, right?”

Dumbledore solemnly shook his head. “Some would say that the ability to love is the greatest power, Harry.”

Harry nodded. So, I was right to list that power as irrelevant.

“The prophecy ends on a more dour not,” Dumbledore was saying, “'Neither can live while the other survives' are the final words.”

Harry nodded, still thinking about the previous part. “Of course. One of us has to kill the other. Obvious,” he said without thinking.

“Harry?” asked Dumbledore.

Harry blinked, and immediately realized his blunder. “Er, what I mean-”

“Harry.” Dumbledore's voice was firm.

Harry, almost involuntarily, glanced up and met the older man's eyes.

That was when it happened.

Harry felt Dumbledore reach towards his mind. The old man made no movement, made no aggressive motion, but Harry could nonetheless feel the attack. Time seemed to stop. Harry was flooded with memories of being possessed by Voldemort, the anguish of losing control, the horror at hearing himself speak words that were not his, and the utter lack of control. Harry could feel his skin crawling as he saw the attack on his mind; he knew that he could not abide that sort of invasion again.

As quickly and innocuously as it had happened, it stopped. Harry was back in the shed.

But everything was grey.


End file.
